


Burning with the Embers

by commodorecliche



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst and Feels, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst with a Happy Ending, Comfort/Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Sex, Established Relationship, Garla Technology, Hurt/Comfort, Intimacy, Love, M/M, Reconciliation Sex, SHEITH - Freeform, Support and Care, an emotionally supportive couple is my kink, canonverse, extensive heat metaphors, getting to know each other again, not sorry, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-02
Updated: 2018-02-02
Packaged: 2019-03-12 14:21:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13549164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/commodorecliche/pseuds/commodorecliche
Summary: Beam a light on me, I am a satellite, and I can’t get back without you.The war rages and the distance between Shiro and Keith has grown with every passing day. Shiro has become distant and withdrawn - and Keith wants nothing more than to remind him that he doesn’t have to face this all alone. The reality of their situation is a heavy burden to bear; in the privacy of Keith’s bedroom, they will reconnect. And they will work to reconcile the distance that has grown between them and reignite the love they both still feel.





	Burning with the Embers

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fic I really had been wanting to write based on my personal headcanon that Shiro's Galra arm would likely heat up when aroused or when in highly emotional states. So naturally, I ran with it. 
> 
> Enjoy these 6k+ words of angst, smut, feelings, and uh, smut.

**::**  

Shiro’s been stressed lately. More so than usual.

Trauma does that to a person, Keith supposes. _War_ does that to a person.

Shiro, of course, never breaks his outward illusion of calm: always the stoic soldier, determined to carry on, come hell or high water. And the others certainly don’t seem to notice that anything is amiss – Shiro’s made sure of that – but Keith would have to be blind not to see the change.

There are bags under Shiro’s eyes most mornings – he’s sleeping less and less. His brow furrows more often now, a silent sign of a worried mind. His hands are balled into fists at his sides more often than not, his teeth clenched like steel traps just to keep himself calm, so desperate to hold on, desperate to stay grounded. Keith can tell it’s getting harder and harder for him with each passing day. He wants to reach out to him, to take those hands into his own, to sooth away the twitching tightness in them.

Keith wants nothing more than to close the distance between them again. Because even when Shiro is present, he feels so very far away.

Keith misses him.

They haven’t been intimate since they left earth. They’ve kissed only a handful of times, only when spurred by desperation or fear for their lives: always a frantic reminder that no matter what, they’re still in this together. But they sleep in separate rooms, and spend little private time together anymore.

Keith’s used to sleeping alone – he supposes Shiro is used to it now as well after spending so long in captivity – but that doesn’t mean he has to like it.

Keith _misses_ him.

They’ve had a long day today – a hard won battle waged against a slew of Galra forces. They’d escaped without casualties, but only by the skin of their teeth; all the paladins are marred with scrapes and aching joints but nothing that a little rest won’t heal. They eat their dinner that evening with light, quiet conversation, but exhaustion lingers like a bruise on all their bodies.

Shiro barely eats. He doesn’t talk.

The poorly stitched cut on his eyebrow is bleeding again.

Keith watches from across the table as Shiro ignores his food and drags the back of his hand along his brow, smearing the red across his skin. The conversation continues to lull around him as Shiro stays fixated on the blood that’s streaked across his hand. Barely a minute passes before Shiro jolts up, his chair skidding out behind him as he mumbles something about how he’s going to call it a night.

Shiro only makes it a few steps out of the room before Keith throws down his own napkin and rushes out of his chair, saying he’s going to go to bed as well. He doesn’t even wait for his companions’ acknowledgements before he jogs after Shiro.

Keith catches up with Shiro in the hall – he hadn’t made it far, tired muscles weighing down his every move.

“Shiro,” Keith calls to him as he approaches, “Shiro, wait.”

Keith places a gentle hand on Shiro’s shoulder to stop him. Shiro pauses and turns around at Keith’s touch like it were second nature to him. Some things never change, and Keith is grateful for it. Keith’s fingers press into Shiro’s shoulder – a small act of comfort as he stares up into his friend’s tired, pallid face. He drags his hand up from Shiro’s shoulder along the camber of his neck to cup at the curve of his jaw; he drags his thumb across his cheek and stares at the thin line of blood that’s threatening to drip from Shiro’s brow to his temple.

“Are you okay?” Keith asks, careful to keep his voice low so it doesn’t carry back into the dining room.

Shiro let’s out a long sigh and nuzzles his face into Keith’s palm; he breathes in the smell of his skin for a moment before nodding into Keith’s touch.

It’s the most intimate they’ve been in what feels like ages.

“Yeah, it’s just a cut.”

Keith shakes his head, caresses Shiro’s face once again.

“No, I mean _you_ . Are _you_ okay?”

The silence hangs between them like a void – it’s an empty space that Keith isn’t sure how to fill. Shiro licks his lips and nods again, careful to keep his cheek in close contact with Keith’s palm, but he won’t look at him. Instead, he stares at the floor and lifts his arm to grapple at Keith’s forearm, human fingers itching to touch. He kneads those fingers into the tender flesh of Keith’s arm and nods one more unsteady time.

The gesture is uneasy. Unsure. And Keith isn’t sure who he’s trying to convince at this point, either: Keith or himself.

“Yeah.”

“It’s… it’s okay not to be, you know?” Keith pauses and gestures his head back towards the dining area, “ _They_ might need you to be that stoic, fearless leader, but you don’t have to be that way with me…”

Shiro’s lips purse as he dares a brief glance down at Keith. He adjusts his hold on Keith’s forearm, tender movements massaging the muscle as he places his Galra hand on the back of Keith’s neck. It’s warm to the touch, like Shiro’s human hand; Keith could easily let himself forget that it isn’t Shiro’s real arm.

Shiro pulls them close, pressing his forehead against Keith’s and allowing his eyes to slip closed. He doesn’t say anything for a moment – his breath comes out in soft, uneven puffs across Keith’s skin.

“I’m just so tired…” Shiro breathes, and there is a hint of raw vulnerability in his voice that twists Keith’s stomach like a knot. It sounds like exhaustion, it sounds like resignation, so different from the façade of unwavering strength that Shiro forces up for others.

It’s a vulnerability Keith hasn’t felt from him in god knows how long now.

“I know,” Keith whispers, letting his eyes slip closed as well. He angles his head to the side a bit, careful not to break the contact between their foreheads but allowing his nose to nuzzle against the skin of Shiro’s cheek. “I know you are. But I’m here, Shiro. You don’t have to do this alone.”

Shiro sucks in a long, shaky breath and nods against Keith’s forehead. His Galra hand, still hot against Keith’s skin, squeezes the back of Keith’s neck again.

“I know.”

Shiro tilts his head and presses a kiss against Keith’s cheek, lips lingering against the warmth of his cheek as Shiro breathes him in once more.

“I’m gunna… I’m gunna go to bed, I think,” Shiro mumbles into Keith’s cheek.

“Okay,” Keith whispers, trying not to let his disappointment seep into his words.

It takes another beat before Shiro separates them, a single deep breath for resolve on his lips as he pulls away from Keith. His fingers massage Keith’s neck once more, while his other hand ease’s Keith’s own away from his face.

“Goodnight,” Shiro tells him before continuing down the hall towards his quarters.

Keith watches him go, but only lets him get a few more steps before he calls out to him.

“Shiro?”

Shiro stops, cranes his neck back to look at Keith over his shoulder.

“I love you,” Keith tells him. He hasn’t said it since Shiro left for Kerberos. He hasn’t heard Shiro say it since then, either.

He doesn’t expect it, but Shiro smiles in return: the first real smile Keith thinks he’s seen from him in ages.

“I love you too.”

There isn’t an ounce hesitation or uncertainty in Shiro’s tone. Keith’s chest aches.

**::**

The hiss of the doors in the castle isn’t loud but Keith has always been a light sleeper. So when his bedroom door slides open and closes again, Keith wakes at once. His bleary eyes blink in the darkness, trying to adjust back to a wakeful state. Groaning, he sits up, his eyes coming to rest on Shiro’s figure that’s leaning heavily against the door to his room.

“Shiro?” Keith asks, holding back a yawn, “What time is it? Are you okay?”

Keith rubs his eyes again as Shiro takes a couple hesitant steps further into the room, moving to stand at Keith’s bedside. Shiro is dressed down, wearing just a tank top and sweatpants, and it’s the most casual Keith has seen him since they’d left Earth. He looks uneasy, though, arms crossed across his body and hands rubbing along them as though he wants to hide them, to hide the scars, to hide the mangled flesh where his prosthetic meets his body.

Keith shucks his blankets off and moves up onto his knees, moving so he can get even with Shiro’s line of sight. He places one hand on Shiro’s hip, the other coming to cradle his face once more. Shiro looks distraught – unsure and uneasy. He looks vulnerable and raw in a way that reminds Keith of the openness they used to have with each other. Keith kneads his fingers reassuringly into Shiro’s hip.

“Shiro,” Keith says again, stroking his fingers across Shiro’s cheeks, “ _talk_ to me…”

Shiro ducks his head in a curt nod and sucks in a low breath.                                

“Yeah, I just,” Shiro pauses and lifts his hand to grapple at Keith’s, holding Keith’s palm more firmly against his cheek. Whether it’s for reassurance or simple desperation for touch, Keith isn’t sure. He turns and presses a brief kiss into Keith’s palm: it’s an affectionate gesture but it’s heavy with insecurity and worry.

“What’s wrong?”

“I don’t want to do this alone, Keith.”

A mixture of sadness and hope, nearly indistinguishable from each other, clutches his heart like a vice. He hates to see Shiro so run down, so exhausted, so _afraid_. And yet there is some comfort to be found in Shiro’s desire to be here with him, to want to open up to him again.

It’s the comfort of time gone by, a memory of the way they used to be before war had settled over them like a plague.

It reminds Keith of home.

This life would be trying on anyone, Keith knows that. They _all_ have struggled and fought and been crushed by weight that no human being should ever have to bear. But he cannot begin to fathom the things Shiro has withstood or the suffering he has endured alone, in silence, trying his damnedest to pretend that everything is fine. The Shiro that suffers in silence is not the Shiro he remembers. _This_ is the Shiro that Keith remembers – vulnerable and open, ready to come to him, to remember that Keith is and will always be at Shiro’s side every step of the way.

Keith won’t let him face the darkness on his own anymore.

“You aren’t alone, Shiro,” Keith whispers. He lifts his other hand from Shiro’s hip so he can fully cradle Shiro’s face in his palms, to keep him close, to keep him safe, to remind him that he’s there.

Shiro heaves a shaking sigh and even in the darkness, Keith can tell he’s close to tears.

“You aren’t alone,” Keith tells him again as his lips plant gentle kisses across Shiro’s face.

Shiro’s breath grows deeper, a fraction calmer, but still on edge as he nuzzles his face into Keith’s.

“I miss you, Keith.”

“I’m here.”

Shiro’s arms wrap around Keith’s middle, pulling him close as he tilts their heads to claim Keith’s lips. Shiro kisses him hard and deep – no tongue, but his lips are insistent and needy as they perse and press against Keith’s own. It reminds Keith of another time – a better time, a time before war and trauma and death and suffering. Keith wonders if it reminds Shiro of that time too.

The kiss is short-lived; Shiro breaks it only to keep their foreheads pressed close together. Shiro’s fingers dig hard into the muscles of Keith’s back as he pulls him in close, and Keith’s hands keep their hold on Shiro’s face. Somewhere deep inside of him, he’s afraid to break the contact, afraid that Shiro might turn and run and wall himself off once again if he were to let go.

“I want,” Shiro starts, pausing to collect himself with a heavy breath against Keith’s lips, “I want to forget all this, Keith. I just- I want to rest, and I want to be with you and remember how things used to be before- before…”

Before the Galra. Before the trauma. Before this _war_.

Before Shiro had ever had to question his own humanity.

Keith drags his thumbs across Shiro’s cheeks, aching when he finds them wet. He slides his hands forward to lace more firmly across the nape of Shiro’s neck, holding him close against him, afraid to let him go. There’s a lot they haven’t said to each other in the months that they’ve been out here, a lot things they need to remind each other of as they wage war in the name of the greater good. A lot of words to say again, a lot of kisses they need to reclaim. And the feeling of Shiro’s arms wrapped hard and hot around his middle is enough to make Keith believe that they have time to remind each other of the love that still flares in the empty spaces between them.

“I love you,” Keith tells him, and Shiro lets out a broken sigh in response.

“I love y-” Shiro starts, but Keith doesn’t let him finish. With one firm pull, he drags Shiro’s mouth against his own, desperate to taste the lips that had loved him all those months ago.

Shiro kisses like he might die at any moment – deep and desperate, frantic to swallow as much of Keith as he’ll allow.  Keith urges him towards the bed - insistent fingers on Shiro’s hips, mouths unwilling to separate as he ushers Shiro to crawl onto the bed. He scoots back on the bed and leads Shiro with him, angling and rolling his body to lower Shiro’s back to the mattress.

The bed is a mess of pillows and blankets, warm still from where Keith’s body had slept, and Shiro is content enough to let it consume him. He goes where Keith wants, yearning to listen as his body writhes beneath Keith’s guiding hands. He’s open, he’s weak, he’s desperate to bury himself back into the bed with Keith above him, sheltering him all the way.  

Keith poises himself between Shiro’s legs – aching just to be near him. This touch is everything to him – sexual and sensual, of course, but overflowing with a lust for life that Keith hasn’t felt in Shiro since they first left Earth. Keith rests his elbows against the mattress on either side of Shiro’s head, caging him off, offering what little protect he can from a universe that would be happy to steal Shiro away and consume him. Keith slates their lips together and presses his body against the hardened expanse of Shiro’s.

A whimper rumbles against his lips as Keith urges for closer contact. He rolls his hips down into Shiro’s and opens his mouth to thrust his tongue languidly along Shiro’s. The fabric of their sweatpants is a poor barrier between them. Keith can tell Shiro’s hard as he grinds his own erection against him. It’s been so long since they’ve touched like this, it’s been so long since he’s tasted this mouth, touched this body, felt this heartbeat thrumming – heavy and alive – against his own.

Shiro’s hands grapple at his back. His touch is warm – heated and heavy, even through the fabric of Keith’s shirt. Keith groans at the contact and allows one hand to play in the short hair on Shiro’s head. He dares another gentle roll of his pelvis against Shiro’s, and Shiro breaks their kiss with breathy groan. He lolls his head to the side, absently thrusting his hips back up against Keith’s.

Keith takes the moment to push himself up – he yanks his shirt off in a rush before lowering himself back down to Shiro. He mouths along the bend of Shiro’s throat, tonguing at sinew and pulse until Shiro whimpers.

“Keith…” Shiro groans, turning his head back so he can nibble at the expanse of Keith’s shoulder, “I just want to remember what I used to be…”

His words ghost across the exposed skin of Keith’s shoulder, lips caressing Keith’s skin with every mumbled syllable. What little resolve Keith has is steadily crumbling, brought down by Shiro’s touch, his vulnerability, his honesty. Keith trails soft kisses along the length of Shiro’s neck to his jaw and then to his ear, nipping gentle kisses along the shell of it.

“You’re no different now,” Keith whispers against his ear, “You’re still you. Nothing will ever change that.”

Shiro breathes a heavy sigh against Keith’s shoulder. Shiro doesn’t say anything, but his hands splay against Keith’s bare back again. They press against him harder, urging Keith closer as Shiro nods his acknowledgement into Keith’s shoulder. His hands span the expanse of Keith’s back, nimble, needy fingers massaging and relearning the musculature with every touch. The palm of his right hand presses hard into the small of Keith’s back – the warmth of the metal is enough to send a fervent shiver up Keith’s spine.

Keith pushes up a little so he can kiss at Shiro’s temple, soothing the stitched up cut on his brow as tenderly as he can. Shiro tastes like iron and skin and familiarity - he tastes like comfort. Keith claims Shiro’s lips once more as he inches his fingers beneath Shiro’s tank top. Keith doesn’t go too far, though; he pauses, silently waiting for Shiro’s approval before he proceeds. Shiro nods his affirmation and hums into their kiss, unwilling to release Keith’s mouth to actually speak.

Keith shucks his hand beneath Shiro’s shirt, fingers eager to touch and relearn the body he has loved so many times before. He breaks their kiss only to let Shiro sit up and remove the top completely.

Shiro’s body is littered with scars - wounds and bruises that may have physically healed by now but would never truly fade. They’re nothing Keith hasn’t seen already but it’s a punch in the gut each time he sees them, if only because they remind him of everything Shiro has lost. He wants Shiro to feel whole again - loved and comforted and human, once again.

Keith dives his mouth down to Shiro’s shoulder, chest pressed flush against Shiro’s, as his mouth laves affection across every scar that dares to mar his skin. Shiro groans - breathy and uneven - his arms slinking around Keith’s torso, fingers clawing hard into the muscled flesh of Keith’s back.

There’s a tingling warmth that prickles across Keith’s skin. As he nips and bites along Shiro’s shoulder and neck, he feels the heat radiating from his spine, down around his left side, engulfing his ribs. It’s hot - almost too hot - but there’s a comforting ache to be found in the heat, and Keith squirms into the sensation. He sinks his teeth into the camber of Shiro’s neck, and the heat sparks and spreads. It’s fevered. Heated, but not painful. Keith hisses at the sensation. His hands fumble down Shiro’s sides, one dragging along Shiro’s thigh, hooking behind his knee to urge Shiro to open his legs wider.

Shiro does, hips desperate and grinding. His right arm drags along Keith’s spine, comes to rest in the small of Keith’s back, fingers curled and insistent, palm flush and hot against the sensitive flesh. Keith squirms at the touch.

Keith breaks their kiss - reluctant separation peppered with needy pecks as he forces himself to draw away from Shiro’s mouth. Knelt between Shiro’s legs, Keith’s fingertips drag down the expanse of Shiro’s chest, nimble, tickling down to his waist, his hips, the line where skin meets cloth. He eyes Shiro, waiting for approval, and digs his fingers beneath the elastic the moment Shiro consents.

Their pants are gone in an instant, Shiro just as impatient to strip Keith of his clothing as Keith was of his. The clothes are tossed somewhere - it doesn’t matter where, because the only thing Keith can think about as he nestles himself in between Shiro’s sprawled legs is how long it’s been since he’s seen this side of Shiro, since he’s felt Shiro this way. Their days are endless and numbered, every touch the first and the last, and Keith has to savor it while he can.

He bears his body down against Shiro, rolling his hips languidly, living for the way Shiro’s head presses back into the pillow with an uneven gasp on his lips. Keith latches his mouth to Shiro’s throat, presses his tongue along the thrum of Shiro’s pulse. He’s aching, desperate to remind myself of the life inside of Shiro, the vivaciousness that resides deep within him.

He’s broken, he’s struggled, he has suffered, unquestionably so, but he’s alive. He’s alive, and pushing forward, and Keith knows Shiro is stronger than Keith could ever hope be.

He wants to taste him, taste his heart beat. Keith wants to remember that Shiro has won, has survived, has gone on to fight another day with fists raised.

Shiro’s pulse is heavy against his tongue, so Keith tongues it harder.

Shiro groans, his hands fumbling up Keith’s back as their erections grind together.

A touch of heat burns Keith once again - hotter now and not cooling, scalding warmth against his skin as Shiro’s fingers dig into his flesh. It’s too much to ignore. He yanks his mouth away from Shiro’s throat with a gasping groan. Shiro clutches at him, doesn’t let him go, and stares up at Keith with brow furrowed.

“What?” Shiro huffs, “What’s wrong?”

The heat against his body dwindles, Keith’s skin cooling just as quickly as it had flushed. Keith shakes his head.

“Nothing,” he mumbles, “come here.”

He lowers his body closer to Shiro, elbows caged on either side of Shiro’s head. He loves this closeness, the intimacy, the privacy it gives them as he claims Shiro’s mouth and slips his tongue past Shiro’s lips. Keith grinds his hips down against Shiro’s once again - not urgent, but persistent and needy. Shiro meets him in kind.

Shiro’s fingers trail up his spine, palm coming to grip at the nape of Keith’s neck. He wants it deeper, starvation in his touch obvious by the insistence of it, the desperation. Keith groans into his mouth, and only breaks the contact when he has to, unable to hold off any longer. Shiro is reluctant to release him when Keith moves to grab salve and a condom. The distance that has existed between them - since the moment Shiro first left Earth - has been unbearable; Keith can’t blame Shiro for wanting to cling to that contact for as long as he can.

Moving away from Shiro now is just as hard as letting that rocket launch all those months ago.

When he settles back between Shiro’s legs, Keith lowers himself, face even with Shiro’s stomach as he opens up the salve and urges Shiro to spread his legs a little wider. Shiro’s right hand comes to rest in his hair; it’s a warm weight against his scalp, comforting and close, as he gives Keith his silent consent to proceed.

Keith opens him up with gentle fingers - one, then two, then three - his mouth engulfing Shiro’s cock with heated, barely restrained passion. Shiro squirms beneath him, opens up, and groans for more. His fingers curl and caress Keith’s hair, encouraging. Heat from Shiro’s metallic fingers radiates across his scalp and urges Keith onward, telling him that Shiro’s ready.

Shiro breathes a long, keening sigh when Keith pulls his fingers free and lifts his mouth off of his cock. Keith applies a little lube to himself as Shiro’s hands grapple for whatever skin he can touch: he’s desperate for more, aching for contact, for affection. Keith wants to give it to him.

Keith crawls up Shiro’s body and nestles his hips between Shiro’s open legs. One hand slides along the back of Shiro’s thigh, urges him to open up even wider for him. Shiro does and presses his head back into the pillow as Keith lines himself up and slips into him. A breath of relief, of calm, leaves Shiro’s mouth as Keith steadily pushes in to the hilt.

He peppers gentle kisses across the sharp angle of Shiro’s jaw as he slowly - so slowly - pulls out and thrusts back in. Shiro grunts, clenches his eyes shut and slips his arms around Keith’s middle. The contrast of Shiro’s touch is stark: one arm of flesh and blood, pulsing and alive, aching to meld with Keith’s body, the other hardened metal, rigid, but with the exact same vitality. It’s warm against his skin, the heat of it steady and unrelenting as Keith begins to thrust in earnest.

Shiro’s fingers grip at him, curl and dig and grapple for a stronghold as Keith moves inside of him. His arm flushes with color - a soft pink and purple glow that lingers in the darkened bedroom. With each thrust of Keith’s hips, the metal of Shiro’s prosthetic stings with heat, an unyielding fever that yearns to claw its way beneath Keith’s skin.

It’s good. It’s alive. It’s bright. It’s good. It’s almost too much.

Keith groans as he kisses Shiro, eyes clenched shut at the mixture of sensations flooding through his body. The gentle, honey-like caress of Shiro’s tongue against his own, the tightness of Shiro’s hole gripping him as he fucks into him, the comforting squeeze of Shiro’s legs as they curl around his hips, and the unbearable heat that flushes against Keith’s skin, the heat that longs to sear its way into his flesh. It warms him. Just on the edge of uncomfortable, it burns him. But it’s what he wants, what he needs. He loves it. He aches for it. It hurts. It rends him, and he loves it, but it’s too much.

Keith tears his mouth away from Shiro’s with a gasp, his body twitching against the burning grip of Shiro’s arms. He stops his thrusts and takes a moment to breathe - overwhelmed with sensation he has to pause, to collect himself. Shiro stares up at him in confusion and with every passing second, the heat against Keith’s flesh begins to dissipate.

Keith breathes in deep - shivering as the burning warmth begins to fade away. And just like that, he misses it.

Shiro’s brow furrows. His own breathing is uneven, his eyes are hazy; clouded with lust and love and all the things that Keith is sure he hasn’t let himself feel in ages.

“Keith? What’s wrong?”

Keith shakes his head. Nothing is _wrong_. He just needs to breathe for a moment, to gather himself.

“Nothing,” Keith tells him, punctuating his response with a shallow thrust into Shiro, “Your, your arm. It’s just hot.”

Shiro’s face pales - he glances nervously at his arm, now radiating a pale purple glow, and loosens his hold on Keith. Even in the low light, Keith can see the sudden stricken look that flashes across his eyes. Shiro pulls his hand off of Keith and draws it close to himself. Keith can see the panic, the fear and insecurity that’s beginning to rise inside of Shiro.

“No, no, it’s okay…” Keith reaches one hand out for Shiro’s, but Shiro jerks it away.

“Don’t touch it,” Shiro hisses.

His hand his shaking.

Keith grabs for it again, getting ahold of it this time. Shiro shakes his head and tries to pull it out of Keith’s grasp, but Keith won’t let him. The arm feels cold now - distant, inhuman, little more than functional alloy and Keith hates it. He leans in close and lets his lips nip along Shiro’s cheek as he maneuvers Shiro’s hand in his own. Keith threads his fingers between Shiro’s, curling them and holding onto Shiro’s prosthetic hand with firmness.

“I said it’s okay,” Keith mutters against Shiro’s stubble. Beneath him, Shiro shakes his head.

“I-I hurt you, God... I hurt you, I’ll hur-”

“Shiro. _No_ , it’s okay.”

Shiro tries once again to pull his hand away, to untangle his fingers from Keith’s, but the attempt is meek. Half-hearted, like he wants to stay.

“Don’t touch it,” Shiro whispers again.

Keith tightens his grip - a reassuring squeeze of Shiro’s hand just to remind him he isn’t letting go - and pushes himself up on his other arm. He hovers over Shiro, enough so that he can see all of Shiro’s face, but close enough that Shiro can still fully feel his presence. He doesn’t want Shiro to drift away from him again, doesn’t want to see him pull back and wall himself off again. Keith doesn’t know if he could stand it.

“Look at me.”

Shiro is hesitant, but he does as Keith asks. He angles his head to stare up at his partner, the same nervousness and turbulence lingering in every line of his face. Keith licks his lips and squeezes Shiro’s hand before unthreading their fingers and bringing the prosthetic to his lips.He peppers light kisses across the black tips of each finger, tender and quiet purses of his lips for every digit.

“This isn’t an _it_ ,” Keith mumbles between kisses, “this is _you_ , Shiro. It belongs to _you_ , it’s part of _you_ . And I want _you_ to touch me, I want to feel you.”

Shiro swallows, jaw clenching for a brief second, but he doesn’t protest Keith’s actions. Keith watches as Shiro’s face begins to relax the longer Keith showers this hand in affection. Shiro’s eyes slip closed and an uneven breath shudders out of him as Keith begins to mouth more fervently at the fingers of the prosthetic. With each passing second, the faint glow of Shiro’s arm begins to grow brighter. Keith’s light and gentle kisses across his fingertips steadily morph into sensual licks along the length of every finger.

Keith sneaks in another small roll of his hips, reminding Shiro of where they’re connected. Shiro groans and the prosthetic begins to flush again, a lustrous pink beginning to radiate from it once again. Keith lets one finger slip between his lips, sucking the length of it with ardent care, and thrusts his hips once more. Heat flourishes across his tongue - a burning tingle that aches to radiate down his throat and through his body, straight down to his gut. Keith groans around Shiro’s finger and releases it with a breathy grunt.

His hips are already moving again, rutting slow and shallow into Shiro just to remind him that he’s there. He wants Shiro to remember this, to remember that they’re here, that they exist in this moment together. Keith guides Shiro’s arm and urges Shiro to wrap the prosthetic around his middle just like his other arm is.

“It’s okay, Shiro” Keith whispers, “Hold onto me.”

Shiro hesitates but when Keith gives him another encouraging nod, he relinquishes and lets his arm settle around Keith’s middle. His palm splays across Keith’s skin, his large hand a hot, hefty weight across the small of Keith’s back. Keith begins to thrust a little harder, a little more deeply, until he feels Shiro’s fingers start to curl, to grapple for purchase in the flesh of Keith’s back.

Keith lowers himself down close to Shiro, elbows once again resting on either side of Shiro’s head, and claims his mouth in a deep kiss. He thrusts his tongue forward, relishing in the silky warmth of Shiro’s touching his. Heat surges across Keith’s back - sudden, intense and fiery, just on the edge of painful - and it’s good, it’s so good.

Keith wants nothing more than to let Shiro’s heat burn its way straight to his core. He wants Shiro’s marks all over him, the scars of their lovemaking replacing the scars from battle. He wants Shiro’s touch to own him. Keith breaks their kiss with a sharp moan, and in response he feels Shiro’s touch falter. Shiro’s arm flutters away from his skin for a brief moment, hesitancy and fear returning with the sound of Keith’s gasp. The loss of contact sends a icy chill up Keith’s spine.

Burying his head into Shiro’s neck, Keith thrusts his hips harder. He pants warm, heavy breaths into Shiro’s skin, mouthing at his lover’s pulse point with fervor.

“S’good,” Keith groans, “god, Shiro, touch me. _Please_.”

Shiro doesn’t wait this time; he obliges Keith’s pleas in an instant, splaying his hand across Keith’s back like he might anchor the two of them together with the ferocity of his grip. Keith groans - low and heavy - into Shiro’s throat. He rocks his body into Shiro’s. Every thrust makes Shiro’s fingers clutch him harder, makes his legs squeeze him tighter, makes his arm surge with blazing, comforting heat.

Keith’s back will be red after this. Not burnt, but red, and flushed, and torrid.

Keith wants nothing less.

“Does it feel good, baby?” Keith pants into Shiro’s ear.

Shiro’s fingers dig into his flesh, the fire rages across Keith’s skin, and Shiro can only moan his response.

“ _Yes_.”

“That’s it, baby,” Keith encourages as he feels Shiro’s body begin to tense up, the heat growing across his back, “Let go. I’m here.”

“Keith…”

The sound of his name tumbling from Shiro’s lips is enough to push Keith even closer to the edge. He’s close - Shiro is too. Shiro clings to him, arms and legs wrapped around Keith’s thrusting body as if his life depended on it. The heat of Shiro’s arm envelopes him, cradles him, and ignites him as if Shiro could melt the two of them together with that warmth alone.

“Let go for me, baby,” Keith moans against Shiro’s throat. Shiro nods - frantic and tense and strained because he wants to let go. He wants to fall apart, right here under the comforting weight of Keith’s body.

“God, Keith, I’m-”

“Come for me, Shiro.”

“I’m-”

“Me t-too…”

Keith’s thrusts speed up. They’re uneven and urgent, desperate for that release, aching for that heat to spread across every fiber in his body.

Shiro comes just a moment before him. It’s a rush of white heat, brilliant and overwhelming; his body tenses, his hole tightening as come splatters across his tight stomach. His arm is alight with warmth, glowing bright enough to fill the room. The burn of it, the tightness of Shiro’s body, the broken moan on Shiro’s tongue, all of it sends Keith tumbling over the edge with him.

When they come down, Keith can do little more than collapse against Shiro’s chest. He buries his face in Shiro’s neck, planting wet, lazy kisses across his skin. Shiro clings to him - both arms enveloping Keith’s body in a tight embrace. The heat in his prosthetic arm is fading now, its bright pink light calming and softening and leaving the room bathed in nothing but a serene blush.

They have to move eventually - Keith knows that - but he isn’t ready for it yet. He just wants another moment here, another second where he can breathe in Shiro’s skin and feel the warmth of his body. The skin on his back stings a little but it’s a welcomed sensation. It’s the sting of Shiro’s touch, ever-present, grounded, and real. He loves it.

His skin must be red now, flushed and warm. Burning from the embers of a closeness the two of them haven’t felt in months.

Keith hopes the color never fades.

The war they wage will rage on, the battles they fight ceaseless, and the scars they carry will only increase their numbers. But this touch will remain. The blooming burn of Shiro’s embrace will linger on.

And Keith will stand with him, side-by-side, and hold his fevered hands until the war is forced to face the two of them as one.  

**::**

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you guys so much for reading! I really hope you enjoyed this. If you did, consider dropping me a comment, cause hearing y'all's thoughts just makes my day. 
> 
> You can also find me on [tumblr](http://commodorecliche.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://twitter.com/commodorecliche).


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